


The Healing Properties of Alcohol

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Attempt at Humor, Bard the Bowman is So Done, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Party King Thranduil, Protective Legolas Greenleaf, Protective Thranduil, Sick Bard, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 13:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18757720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: Bard is sick. Thranduil and Legolas are spectacularly bad caretakers.





	The Healing Properties of Alcohol

“Ada, is it normal for the human to be… _leaking_ like that?” Legolas cocks his head to the side, his warm blue eyes fixed on Bard’s sweaty, sallow face. Thin streams of yellowish mucus trail from his nose, he hasn’t the strength to wipe them away.

Thranduil winces, reaching into his robes for a kerchief and blindly shoving it in his son’s general direction. “Be a dear and hand that to the man before…oh my…” the mucus drips into Bard’s mouth and Thranduil turns, gagging wetly.

Legolas kind of… _throws_ the kerchief at Bard, not wanting to get any closer to the bed than he already has. Both elves are quite aware that they cannot contract whatever it is that is plaguing Bard, and it is for that very reason that a sight most men would deem ‘common’ has two seasoned warriors ready to cascade. Thrust them into the heat of battle and they shall glory in the blood of their enemy. Show them a sniveling human and they will plot how best to cast the linens into the nearest fire without actually having to touch them with their hands…and perhaps with the human still bundled inside.

Of course, they hadn’t _actually_ considered burning Bard alive when he’d first complained of a ‘tickle’ in his throat earlier that week. He is Thranduil’s husband, and an honored guest in Mirkwood…Bard sneezes loudly, and Legolas actually _jumps_ as snot and spittle fly from his face. The prince takes up behind his father, who is wisely far out of reach of what they have deemed the ‘splash zone’. The poor kerchief, which had landed atop Bard’s face, does little to control the damage, flying into the air with the force of the sneeze and, now thoroughly soaked, lands squarely on Bard’s face with a soft _splat_.

“Eww…” Bard groans, unable to muster the strength to remove the offending article. His brown eyes flicker to Thranduil for help—silently cursing the Elvenking for looking so utterly _perfect_ while he himself looks half-dead, bested by a cold.

Thranduil, ever the dutiful husband, shuffles away to grab one of the many sticks he’d had the soldiers collect for him out in the woods during their patrol. It is just long enough that he need come no nearer to the bed in order to remove the kerchief from Bard’s face. “Just a moment, meleth nîn.” His aim is off, and he stabs Bard in the cheek.

Bard scowls, “Is it too much to ask for you to attend to me properly? You treat me as if I were a leper, poking me with sticks and throwing me favors in an effort to keep your distance. It is just a bloody cold!” He exclaims. During his speech, Thranduil is at last able to drape the kerchief on the stick…he immediately casts both into the fireplace, and Bard’s scowl deepens.

“Where is that thrice-damned midwife? I feel as though we sent for her _ages_ ago…” Thranduil says, utterly oblivious to his husband’s ire. Taking another kerchief from his robes, he hands it to Legolas, “Here. He is leaking again.”

Legolas looks at his father as if he has just seen the Elvenking kill a small, fluffy animal. “He is _your_ husband! Why must _I_ be the one to tend to his leaks?” He cries.

“Because I said so.” Thranduil says, as if this solves everything.

Legolas’ face twists in irritation, and he bites out, “Just for that—do you know the reason the midwife has not yet come? It is because you sent her along with the delegation to Imladris a fortnight ago. She won’t be back for another week, at least!”

Thranduil’s blue eyes widen almost comically, before he frowns, “And you waited this long to tell me? How are we supposed to care for a sick human for another week?”

Bard rolls his eyes, “Not that you’re caring for me now…”

Legolas, ignoring Bard’s comment, answers his father with a sharp, “Maybe if you weren’t half-drunk all the time, you’d remember your decisions well enough to not try and send for a woman that’s currently halfway across Middle-Earth!”

“How dare you.” Thranduil bites back, even as he takes a long sip of wine from a richly gilded goblet. “I’ll have you know that I owe my flawless skin to my daily gin-intake.”  Legolas is still trying to figure out how alcohol always seems to magically appear in his father’s presence when the Elvenking suddenly exclaims, “That’s it! Oh, why didn’t I think of it sooner?”

Bard looks up at him through watery eyes, sniffling miserably. “Whatever it is, no.”

Legolas is equally skeptical, “Do I even want to know?”

But the Elvenking has already vanished in a blur of silver and blue robes. Legolas stares at the place his father stood for a long moment, before turning and offering Bard a sheepish half-smile. Bard’s response is a rather defiant sneeze. He groans as the force of it causes his horribly achy body to lurch forward, the muscles in his belly constricting tightly. Oh, what he would do for a massage…but the odds of him being able to coax his husband close enough to the bed (let alone convince him to sully his lovely hands with human sweat and sick) to administer one are not at all in his favor.

Thranduil returns a few moments later, brandishing the largest bottle of alcohol that Bard has ever seen. He moves toward his desk, grabbing a corkscrew from one of the drawers—Bard wouldn’t be surprised if the Elvenking had corkscrews stashed away in every room in the palace—and makes quick work of opening the bottle. Thranduil is speaking to Legolas in fluid Sindarin and Bard wants to whine about how he’s told Thranduil _at least_ a dozen times that he hates it when he doesn’t speak in Common Tongue in front of him because it makes him feel like the Elvenking is trying to hide something from him –

He lets out a startled yelp as Legolas throws a towel over his body, to keep from coming in contact with his sweat-dampened clothes, and _grabs_ him, yanking him into an upright position with surprising strength. He’s dizzy from the sudden movement, and perhaps that is why, when Thranduil places the lip of the bottle to his mouth and begins pouring spiced rum down his throat, he gags and splutters and a mouthful of alcohol and spittle and phlegm splatter over his face and beard. Legolas frowns, before taking the corner of the towel and scrubbing his face clean.

“I may not be a healer, like Lord Elrond.” Thranduil says, before pressing the bottle against Bard’s lips once more when it seemed his coughing fit was at an end. “But I _am_ well versed in the medicinal properties of alcohol, meleth nîn. And rum, as it were, is especially good for resolving pesky human _colds_.”

Bard is only able to swallow a few mouthfuls before he is dizzy for an entirely different reason—what is it with elves and their ridiculously potent alcohol? He taps Thranduil’s arm weakly and the king draws the bottle away. His cheeks are flushed red from exertion and drunkenness, and Legolas blurts, “Ada, he looks better already!”

Thranduil looks at the bottle as if it has just worked some marvelous miracle, “I daresay, by the time we reach the bottom our lovely Bard shall be completely recovered!”

Bard groans, “Or I will have died from alcohol poisoning.”

Thranduil laughs, “Oh, meleth nîn…if you are going to be hervenn of the Elvenking, we’re going to have to work on your alcohol tolerance.”

Bard’s groan intensifies as he drops back onto the bed and prays to whatever god is listening that he never gets sick again.


End file.
